The List
by whoever1
Summary: A list of names, a suicide bomber, a corrupt politician, and a bride-to-be
1. A new case

Number 10 Downing Street. This is the end. The young man sweats profusely. Not long now. He knows that he has to get closer but he isn't sure how. He checks his watch. Panic sets in. He has less than a minute left. Frantically he scans the crowd trying to find a way through the throng. Then he sees her. Hair of rich mahogany, and a smile so wide it would provoke looks of envy from The Cheshire Cat. This is wrong. Instead of moving forward he stumbles back, and then he screams. "Run! Go now. Get out of the way!" For a few seconds confusion, and then an explosion, and finally chaos.

Two days later

A pretty flower lined plate shatters above John's head, "What the hell," and then another one just to the side of his face.

"Bored." Sherlock lounges on his leather bound chair, a STACK of plates piled up to his left. Just as he's about to grab another John runs across and sweeps them out of his reach. Once assured of safety he removes his coat and slings his scarf on the back of the couch. "What are you playing at?"

"We haven't had a decent case for three months"

" Maybe you could do a crossword, or Sudoku. Watch a bit of telly. Go for a jog. Do what normal people do when they have a bit of free time on their hands."

"What normal people do?" He doesn't even attempt to hide the look of distaste on his face.

"I'm not suggesting you watch Made in Chelsea."

"I don't know what that is."

"Of course you don't." John picks a newspaper up off of the coffee table. The front page is dominated by news of the Downing Street bomber. Grainy pictures taken on a camera phone, new eye witness testimonials.

Sherlock jumps to his feet "No. There's nothing else for it. If the people won't come to us, we'll go out to the people."

"Is that the royal we?"

"London is huge city, filled to the brim with a myriad of people. Different sexes, different classes, different cultures. One of those people out there needs my help. One of them is in possession of a puzzle worthy of my time and my attention."

"And where do we find this mysterious person?"

"We do what thousands of normal people do on an daily basis. You buy me a drink and we people watch."

" This is another opportunity for you to show off isn't it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Three hours later.

"Forty three years old. Married, father of four. One of them isn't his. Works at a bank. From the shade of ink on his fingers I'd sayyyyy... HSBC. Didn't go home last night, but only because he was swamped at work. He's thinking of an affair but the woman he's chasing is way out of his league. She's more attractive than him, better at her job, and a couple of inches taller. He should get lifts." He puts his glass down then shouts across at the man at the bar, "You should get lifts!"

"Sherlock!" John looks across apologetically at the bemused banker. " I'm sorry."

"These people are all so dull."

"No. You're behaving like a child." He claps his hands together, "Well. It was a long shot, but we've been here for a long time, no cases and I have got to go home."

"Wait! This one might be promising. Ten o clock" John looks past his friend. "No my ten o clock."

A quick look behind him "The blonde?"

"The blonde."

"What makes her so interesting."

"Right now everything about her life is perfect. New job which she obviously enjoys, and takes a lot of pride in, hence her newly bought expensive skirt suit. Way out of her price bracket even though she's thrifty by nature - she ordered the house vodka rather than the named brand, and her shoes have been reheeled several times. She's just got engaged, to a man that cares a great deal about her. The ring on her finger is uniformly shiny, the stone on it is ridiculously large and she keeps catching it on the bar, on her bag, on her purse, like she's not used to wearing it. The papers in her bag show that she's considering buying a house, three bedrooms so she's considering having children. Even so, she's on the verge of crying. If it were something substantial, the death of a loved one, she'd either be at home with her fiancée, or she'd be drinking more heavily. Something is puzzling our blonde stranger, and seeing as though she seems to be reasonably intelligent, I think I'm the one to help her."

"You? You think you're the best person to help a woman that's about to cry."

"I'm the only person that can help her." Sherlock stands up quickly and strides past his friend

"Really? Sherlock, I strongly suggest that you don't approach the woman on the verge of tears. Sherlock?"

Too late. "Hello."

She looks him up and down before forcing a smile "Hi."

"You need help."

She finishes her drink. "No. I'm fine."

"You don't have to lie to me. You can't lie to me."

"Why? Because you're the great Sherlock Holmes? I thought you were dead."

"I was, for a little while."

"Killed yourself."

"It's complicated."

"Was it a tax scam? Did your partner, hello Mr Watson, did he have life insurance out on you?"

"You can't claim life insurance in cases of suicide."

John interrupts. "What he means to say is we're not together. I'm actually engaged. To be married. To a girl."

She smiles again. "That's nice."

Sherlock appears disgruntled by the shift in conversation. "Why aren't you happy?"

"It's been lovely meeting you both." She stands and eases her way past the two friends.

Not to be put off. "It's something to do with your father, whatever it is that has you so het up. Which is odd, because he passed away five years ago." She stops in her tracks while he continues. "I can help you."

"Four years, nine months, twelve days, but that's by the by." She turns and faces Sherlock. "Look, it's nothing. It's just a feeling, and a feeling is certainly not enough to justify hiring a private detective."

"I don't want your money. I just want something to pass the times. Shall we take a seat?" He offers her his arm and makes an attempt at a comforting, friendly smile. The results are mixed. She hesitates for a few seconds before taking his arm and following him across to their table.

Sherlock and the blonde sit opposite of one another, while John has positioned himself between them.

"My father was a good man, but in his youth he was involved with the wrong kind of people. He wanted to save the world but became disillusioned with the legal channels and felt that the only way he might challenge the status quo was via more extreme measures. He did some despicable, but slowly he came to realise that what he was doing was wrong. He had a change of heart. He'd met my mother and always credited her kind, loving nature for bringing about that change. Once I was born he made a great effort to distance himself from his former colleagues and acquaintances. We moved to England, he got a good job and for a long time my childhood was idyllic. Then when I was twelve my mother was killed in a car accident and my father became convinced that his past had caught up with him. He was obsessed with protecting me and began to gather information. A collection of secrets. While that information was in his possession he thought that we were safe. He had a brown leather filofax that he kept all of these secrets in, I only ever got my hands on it once, and most of it was gibberish. He died. Just under five years ago. Nothing suspicious. Lung cancer. On the day of the funeral I returned home to find it trashed. The television, my laptop, ornaments, and some of my mother's jewellery had all been taken. It was distressing but at the time I didn't think anything of it. Someone had taken advantage of my father death to make a quick profit when they knew that the house would be empty. " She opens her bag and pulls a folded up newspaper cutting out of her purse. "Then two days ago - this suicide bomber outside of the houses of parliament. It changed everything. The suicide bomber was a man called Marcus Babblewight. No known political affiliates. A young man from an upper class family. Oxford educated. Training to be a barrister. I'd never met Marcus Babblewight before, but I knew the name. I'd seen the name in my fathers filofax. It's a memorable name. Most of my father's journal was gibberish but I could read one page. One page was a list of names. Twelve in total. Marcus Babblewight was on that list. I left work early. Ran home, and tried to find the journal but it was gone. I can only assume that it was taken in the robbery."

"Burglary."

"What?"

"A robbery involves the use of fear and force."

John rolls his eyes "Sherlock!"

Sherlock shrugs off Johns disapproval " You're house was burgled. But still, this is quite an interesting puzzle."

"There's more. I remember another name on the list. It wasn't quite as unusual as Marcus Babblewight but equally memorable... Anthony Hope."

"I don't know that name."

"You wouldn't. He's just an ordinary man. He's my fiancée. So you see my predicament. An old journal no longer in my possession. A list of names including a dead terrorist and the man I've given my heart to. I don't remember any other names that were on that list so I have no way at all of figuring out the connection between them. I love Anthony. He's a GP, I don't for one second seriously think he has anything to do with anything but. His name was there. And I can't get rid of this niggling feeling. "

"This is brilliant."

"What?"

"Rest assured I'll have this little problem solved by the end of the week. It's been lovely to meet you but we should get started. Come on John."

"Wait. Don't you want to know my name?" He looks at her blankly, "So you know who to get in touch with when you've solved it."

"Of course."

"It's Anna Vasin."

"It nice to meet you Anna." John offers to shake her hand. Sherlock just nods...

"I want to help."

And then he lets out an exasperated sigh.


	2. Chapter 2

John and Sherlock saunter along Baker Street eating chips. John throws his into the bin. "I don't understand why you didn't just let her help."

"She'd only slow us down."

"You said yourself 'reasonably intelligent' which is more of a compliment than most get. I'm lucky if I get ordinary"

"Reasonably intelligent people are the worst. They think that they can think for themselves and end up screwing things up in unimaginable ways." They arrive at 221B " Lestrade, you got my message."

Inspector Lestrade looks cold. The steaming coffee in the polythene cup seems to have zero effect on his brittle fingers. "I got your message an hour ago, I've been standing outside of your flat like a mug for the last forty five minutes."

Sherlock unlocks the door. "We got sidetracked. Why didn't you wait inside?"

"Mrs Hudson isn't in." He follows them upstairs and into Sherlock's rooms. "So what have you got for me then Sherlock?"

"For you? Nothing. I need some information. What can you tell me about the suicide bomber?"

"Not my case, as you well know! I asked you to look over my case three days ago. You said you had some information for me." He spies the case notes on the table next to Sherlock's chair underneath a half empty coffee mug, nicotine patch wrappers and shards of shattered crockery. "Did you even open the file?"

"Not important. Suicide bomber?" Sensing reluctance he pulls the file out from underneath the mug, and makes a performance of opening it up and reading it through."

"There's nothing I can tell you that isn't in the papers." Sherlock starts to close the file "But I do know one of the blokes on the task force. Now he's not going to take too kindly to me interrogating him, but if there's a specific piece of information you wanted to know..."

Sherlock hands the file over to him. "My suggestion would be that you speak to the brother again. His alibi doesn't hold up. He says that he caught the last train home with his girlfriend which fits in with the timetable and the girlfriend corroborates, but I know for a fact that there was a suicide on that line, on that night. If he'd have caught the last train home he wouldn't have been back in time to find his sister body and ring it in at 11.35. The 999 call would've taken place approximately forty five minutes later. It's not a smoking gun but suspicious nonetheless. I want to know how Marcus Babblewight made it onto Downing Street." He hands the file back to Lestrade.

"So you had read the case notes." A hint of exasperation enters his voice "We don't have to do things this way Sherlock. You could've just called the station, told me what you knew and then asked for my help. Like friends do."

"You're right. Of course you're right. I can come and look at the crime scene tomorrow, if the brother lead doesn't pan out."

"Whatever. I'll pass your details onto my pal on the task force. Vouch for you. He might come round if they need your help." He nods his head to Watson "John." Lestrade leaves.

"Have you spoken to your brother? I'd have thought he'd be all over this."

"Like a rash, but he won't ask for my help until he starts to find the problem tedious." He steps up onto the couch. "We need to clear a space on this wall, as of now all of our other cases are insignificant."

"As of now?"

"All of our attention must be focused on this." He pins Anna's cut out article on the wall. "Go through the papers. Start with this article. Then in every article you read afterwards disregard everything that hasn't already been reported. Chop chop!"

"You want me to read through everything that's been reported? That'll take hours. I need to get home to Mary."

"She'll understand. National security and all that. Bring her round. An extra pair of eyes."

"I'm not inviting my bride to be round to trawl through newspaper reports."

"Then stop complaining. You revealed a problem, I offered a solution. You chose to ignore said solution. So now we get on with things."

"Right. So while I'm doing all of the donkey work, what will you be doing? Dipping into the mind palace? Sitting back in your chair and thinking?"

"I'll be investigating part two of our puzzle, the seemingly insignificant GP, and I'm going to need a disguise."

"A disguise. You're do know that you're rubbish at them."

"I just need to look like a regular person. Can I borrow your jumper?"


End file.
